Authors: Lee Goldberg

Mr. Monk in Outer Space (35 page)

BOOK: Mr. Monk in Outer Space

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Disher joined us. “I got a look inside his house when he came out. You’ve got to see it.”

“Okay,” Stottlemeyer said and started ambling down the driveway. “But I’m telling you right now that I’m not going to take any decorating tips from a guy with an elephant trunk glued to his nose.”

We followed the captain. Monk looked at his feet as he walked to avoid stepping on the cracks in the driveway. The backyard was as weedy as the front, but there was a concrete path from the driveway to the door at the rear of the house. Monk stuck to the path, concentrating on his balance as if he were crossing a bridge over a deep gorge.

The door was ajar. Stottlemeyer pushed it open the rest of the way and we stepped into another world, a couple of centuries into the future.

The living room was an exact replica of the command center of the starship
Discovery
, right down to the captain’s control podium, the joysticks on the navigational console, and the panel of constantly blinking multicolored lights of the main computer, which always seemed to explode in a shower of sparks whenever the ship ran into a meteor storm or was attacked by aliens.

But on closer examination, there were a few things that didn’t fit in, like the stack of junk mail on the communications console, the unlaced sneakers on the floor, the half-eaten bag of Doritos on the command podium . . . and the gun resting on the captain’s stool.

“Beam me up, Scotty,” Stottlemeyer said.

Mr. Monk Finds Himself

Ernest Pinchuk sat at the table in the interrogation room, his arms folded across his chest, glaring defiantly into the mirror that he knew hid the four of us who were in the observation room watching him.

Monk studied Pinchuk as if the man was some weird creature on exhibit in a zoo.

“He hasn’t said a word,” Stottlemeyer said. “He just gurgles.”

“That’s Dratch,” I said. “I’ve heard that it’s hard to speak the language clearly with only one tongue.”

“Why won’t he speak English?” Disher asked.

“His girlfriend told us that he’s protesting the changes to
Beyond Earth
,” I said. “He’s vowed to speak Dratch until they cancel the show or agree to do a version that’s true to the original.”

“You’d think now that Stipe and Mills are dead he’d feel he’s made his point,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Has the network announced that the show is canceled or that they’ll be doing a loyal version?” I asked.

Stottlemeyer shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

“Until they do, I don’t think he’s going to talk to us. At least not in English.”

“Oh, he’ll talk,” Stottlemeyer said. “By the time I’m done, he’ll confess and save us a lot of needless hassle in court.”

“Why would he do that?” Monk said.

“He may not want to speak English, but he understands it. When he’s confronted with the enormity of the evidence against him, he’s going to want to make a deal.”

“What do you have to offer him?” I asked.

Stottlemeyer smiled at us. “Watch and learn.”

A few moments later, Stottlemeyer wheeled a TV/DVD combo into the interrogation room and closed the door. Monk, Disher, and I watched quietly.

The captain smiled at Pinchuk. “You are looking at a very happy man, Ernie. You want to know why? This is a dream case for me. I can get a conviction and a lethal injection for you without even making an effort.”

Pinchuk sputtered and snorted.

“What’s that you say? I have trouble understanding you with that thing on your nose. Maybe this will help.”

Stottlemeyer yanked the trunk off of Pinchuk’s face and tossed it in a corner.

Pinchuk shrieked, not in pain but like someone who’d been stripped naked in public. He covered his exposed nose with his hands as if it was a much more private part of his body.

I was shocked by what the captain did. I know it was only a rubber nose, but given who Pinchuk was, and what the trunk meant to him, it seemed like an act of brutality.

I’m sure that was exactly what Stottlemeyer intended.

“Is that better?” Stottlemeyer asked. “Can you breathe more clearly now?”

Pinchuk hissed and coughed and glugged.

“I guess not. But that’s okay. There’s nothing you have to say. The evidence speaks for itself.”

Stottlemeyer turned on the TV. The security camera video of the Kingston Mills shooting played out on the screen.

“There you are, Ernie, in living color, killing Kingston Mills for ruining the show you love. Ballistics has matched the bullets recovered from the body to the gun we found in your house. Case closed. I just wanted to personally thank you for making my job so easy. I’m going to get home early tonight.”

Pinchuk made some more disgusting noises. Stottlemeyer started to leave, then reconsidered.

“Oh, wait, I almost forgot. There’s more. I wish all serial killers were as considerate as you about supplying us with ironclad evidence of their crimes. We’ve got your first murder on tape, too.”

Stottlemeyer played the Stipe video. Pinchuk gurgled during the playback with such intensity that he was practically spitting.

Disher grinned. “This is so great.”

I wasn’t entertained. From the moment Stottlemeyer ripped off the trunk, I found the whole experience unsettling. I was seeing a side of the captain that I didn’t like very much. Not that I was rooting for Pinchuk—he was a murderer. But he was still a human being.

“Gee, he’s dead and you still can’t stop hating Stipe for selling you all out,” Stottlemeyer said. “Even without the gun on this one, it’s an open-and-shut case. That’s because you were thoughtful enough to wear the same new uniform that you bought this week in both killings. It would have been really nice if you’d worn a name tag, too. But, hey, I’m not criticizing.”

Pinchuk was barking and huffing like a seal, perspiration forming on his brow.

“I think the jury is going to set a new record for the fastest delivery of a guilty verdict in U.S. history. What do you think? Will they be out in ten minutes? Five minutes? Or just thirty seconds? I guess it depends if they want the free lunch first or not.”

Pinchuk’s face was bright red. He was definitely under pressure now. He might even be having a stroke.

“He’s going to crack,” Disher said.

I glanced at Monk, whose head was tilted to one side, observing Pinchuk from a different angle. I wondered what he saw.

Stottlemeyer leaned across the table in front of Pinchuk.

“With all this evidence against you, you’re going to get the needle, no question about it. But if you want to confess, and plead guilty, you can take a stand against the corporate bastards who ruined your show and then you can spend the rest of your life in prison, watching
Beyond Earth
reruns all day. That could be paradise. It’s your choice. It makes no difference to me. I win either way.”

Pinchuk burst out with a passionate stream of coughing, gagging, gurgling, barking, and mewling. He was saying something, and saying it forcefully.

Monk turned to me. “Call Ambrose.”

I hit the speed dial on my cell phone and followed Monk, who marched out of the observation area and directly into the interrogation room.

Stottlemeyer looked up, obviously surprised to see us, especially since things were going so well.

“This isn’t a good time, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said.

Monk went to the TV, froze the image of Mr. Snork shooting Stipe, and looked at me. “Have you got Ambrose on the line?”

At that moment, Ambrose answered the phone.

“Hello, you’ve reached the Ambrose Monk residence. This is Ambrose Monk speaking.”

“Hi, it’s Natalie. Hold on a moment.” I nodded to Monk, hit the SPEAKER button, and held up the phone. “He’s on.”

“Ambrose, we’re with Ernest Pinchuk, leader of the Galactic Uprising, who has just been arrested for the murder of Kingston Mills.” Monk faced him. “Did you also kill Conrad Stipe? Is that you on the security video?”

Pinchuk seemed to repeat the same saliva-spewing tirade that we’d just witnessed. Monk was careful to move out of the range of any spit.

Monk looked at the phone as if it were Ambrose himself in the room. “What did he just say, Ambrose?”

“He’s saying that the gunman is wearing a first-season uniform with second-season ears, which we know is obvious. He says it’s a violation, an abomination, and an insult to everything
Beyond Earth
stands for, and on a personal note, I would have to agree.”

“Ambrose speaks Dratch?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“He can lip-read it, too,” I said.

“If I look up ‘pointless’ in the dictionary after today,” Stottlemeyer said, “that’s going to be the new definition.”

Pinchuk looked, and sounded, like he was choking on a hairball.

Ambrose spoke up again. “He’s saying that Conrad Stipe betrayed himself, his principles, and all of fandom by allowing that snake Kingston Mills to ruin
Beyond Earth.
But whoever is wearing that mismatched uniform is doing the same thing. He says that man is besmirching Earthers everywhere and Mr. Pinchuk wouldn’t do that. That is not him. He says he’s an honorable man.”

“You gunned down a guy in a parking lot this morning, ” Stottlemeyer said to Pinchuk. “I wouldn’t call that honorable. That was murder.”

Pinchuk did some more hacking and snorting while Ambrose did a running translation.

“He’s saying that it wasn’t murder, it was an execution for crimes against humanity. He’s admitting that he shot Kingston Mills. In fact, he wishes that he could have shot whoever was wearing the wrong uniform when he murdered Stipe. He believes the shooter’s purpose was to offend, belittle, and disrespect Earthers. His theory is that it was an act of aggression by someone from
Star Trek
or
Battlestar Galactica
fandom to turn the world against
Beyond Earth
.”

“He’s upset about the uniform,” Stottlemeyer said. “But not the murder. I find
that
offensive.”

Pinchuk kept talking, if you can call it that. Ambrose spoke up.

“Mr. Pinchuk maintains that he didn’t kill Conrad Stipe. He was certainly angry enough to do it, but despite what Stipe did, he was still the creator of
Beyond Earth
and Mr. Pinchuk respects that.”

“There you have it,” Monk said. “This man killed Kingston Mills but not Conrad Stipe.”

“Let’s step outside,” Stottlemeyer said, motioning Monk and me to the door.

BOOK: Mr. Monk in Outer Space

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